June 12, or 11, 2008

Yesterday, or today, or in some other world, a year ago, we left. Leaving what? What is Kansas? A different sort of grassland, and a different sort of city, but some kind of looking glass effect: they mirror each other. We all speak English, and worry about violence, and global warming, and the price of milk. The Simpsons is on at dinnertime, and the day is gone before you know it.

So we live in the same world. But we left Sue and John (and other Friends), and Potwin (big trees, old houses, neighbors), and it being easy to just go and buy whatever we need: Target, Walgreen’s. More of it than we need, and more kinds to choose from. Triscuits, Benadryl, marshmallows, books.

And knowing that you would know what I was talking about: What kind of kids eat Armour hot dogs? A really sincere pumpkin patch. The lunch lady. High school graduation.

And not knowing what They are talking about: raiding the Marmite jar. Getting ready for Tea. Bring a plate. Bums on seats. Kai. Whanau. 2/6/08.

What did we leave behind? Most things are not things but who’s—but we would miss them whether we were in New Zealand or Maine.

We are learning the language, adjusting to “colour” and “organise”, and putting the comma on the outside of the quotes. Two dollar coins are really quite convenient, and no one really needs pennies any more. Even if we liked them, even if they were what we flipped to decide which way to turn on the penny walk at day camp in fourth grade. There is no fourth grade. Even the people here don’t understand what year the children are in, because they just changed all that, a few years ago.

Things change here: somehow, with four million people, they can make decisions to change things like the money, the way you vote, what the years in school are called, and how you measure stuff. Things it is hard to imagine changing in America, where the way things are is god-given or at least federally regulated, constitutionally determined and bound by 50 different colours of tradition. Is this good or bad, the capacity to change?

There is the capacity to make a difference, which is just more obvious here sometimes. I could become an advocate and expert on maternal stress and infant care, and maybe I could change the way the hospital system works. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be possible. It’s possible there, too, but not so obvious, so you might not get to try.

But a year gone, and we are still Kansans; maybe more so. What shall I bring to the shared lunch tomorrow, in our bicultural practice seminar? What would be Kansan? Sunny wheat bread? Sweet potato pie? What is my culture? The moosewood cookbook? Macaroni and cheese. Tuna Noodle casserole and brownies.

I did write a poem, last month:


My poems are lost.
Not forever—
just now; lost
like the finest roots
of a plant repotted,
wounded, strange, stretching
to drink and live
in new soil.

It’s little things. The pot
is fine—room to grow,
a new location,
more sun, air.

But no matter how much baggage we brought,
so much was left behind.
A thousand tiny broken bits undone
groping slowly
taking root in the dark
rich, moist
autumnal
earth.

Love,
Carrie